Oh you might just once imagine that,
From bugs and earth came that Ikat
And silken tops you now adorn
Looking stylish, away from worm.
Around the world, we celebrate you,
Tussah, Muga, Ahimsa silk, too,
For without you, wild pupae, where would we be?
(Probably writing odes about setting you free).
The Buddhist Jains can’t rival this path,
This love for you (and Sylvia Plath),
This tender affection I feel when I wear
An airy silk blouse or new underwear.
It’s a wild immersion, a fashionable tool,
and all from you and your internal spool.
The weavers are spinning your thread into hanks
And I am alone here giving thanks.
Oh, wild moths, spread your wings in flight
And flutter into the mystical Indian night!
Off to that secret place where winged goes free
And you become more than just entomology.